Submarine

CPO Scanes, MEAOW, checked the lower-level watchkeeper and, after handing over his watch to the MEAOW of D watch, was thankful to get the hell out of it. He was sweating from the heat of the lower level and his ears were singing from the scream of the turbos. He craved a shower before snatching an early breakfast. But before going for'd to the SRS' mess on 2 deck, he'd have a word with the wrecker. CPO Hank Botham, third in the ratings' hierarchy in the propulsion department, looked after things for'd of the tunnel. He was a friend of Scanes' from training days and often helped out when Scanes needed to switch the junior stokers. Botham liked to be near the sec now that the Old Man had closed up the cox'n, Bull Clint, on the planes.

The captain was pushing it and the boat was batting along at thirty-plus. There had been an atmosphere of subdued excitement throughout the boat since the skipper's broadcast at 0400. When he eased down to twenty knots, sonar had immediately picked up a faint contact dead ahead to the north-east. However it was so faint that the operator of the searcher had decided it was spurious — and, anyway, the contact was fading to the northward. Scanes negotiated the tunnel and passed through to the for'd end. He'd sneak in to the control-room to see what was on.

The twitch syndrome was certainly evident in the ship's overcrowded nerve centre. Orders crackled through the control-room and by the way Coombes was prowling about his cage, his fingers twirling his moustachios, things were hotting up — some unfortunate sod was catching the rough edge of the Old Man's tongue.

'Shouldn't go any further, chief,' murmured Luke Wesley, the signal communications lieutenant. 'It's dangerous.'

'What's going on, sir? Back aft, we heard that sonar's picked up something.'

The two men were standing on the starboard side of the control-room, by the ladder down to 2 deck and next to the cage protecting the masts. To the right of them was the snort system and for'd of it the chart table sprawled over by Farquharson's lanky frame. Above the navigator's head was his SINS, its dials and instruments projecting to the bulkhead door and the passage leading for'd. The captain was standing between the two athwartship periscopes and waiting for the boat to lose way. His arms hung loosely from his massive chest; his fiery beard masked the form of his face from which his piercing, blue eyes flicked around the control-room. Coombes was concentrating upon the diving panel in front of which Hank Botham was seated, serenely coping with the situation. On Botham's left, Bull Clint was on the planes, his hands off the column as 'George', the automatic hydroplane control, kept Safari ten feet either side of the ordered depth, her fore-planes locked, as she thrashed along. 'George' was safer than Clint on the planes: if he sneezed Safari would loop the loop at this speed. Luke Wesley was leaning towards Scanes.

'The sound-room picked up two contacts at 0500, chief, when the captain reduced for a listen. Both were fine on the port bow. They merged, but were definite and at about fifty miles. We're easing down now for another listen.'

Scanes saw that it was 0612 by the clock on the diving panel. The scow, standing behind Botham, had his eyes glued to the log- twenty-four knots and still walking back as the submarine lost way.

'At six, go six,' Coombes rapped, his large head canted as he waited impatiently for the first sonar reports. 'Steering in hand.' The hooter blared as the sec rang on the revolutions for twenty knots — and Scanes felt the kick in his guts when the sound-room came in with its report from the main sonar.

'2001 new passive contacts, bearing red 52 and red 47.'

The tension became electric as the sonar team called out their bearings. Scanes saw the stiffening of the plotters' backs where they were tracking on the displays on the port side, abaft the cox'n. To their left was the action information console, in front of which the three operators were silently tracking the sonar reports which the AIC computer analysed from the data streaming in from the sensors. Standing behind them was the AID, Lieutenant Kenneth Whalley, watching points while alongside him was the Fire Control Officer: Lieutenant-Commander Simon Grenville, lean and deceptively nonchalant, as he supervised his two operators, a new able seaman whom Scanes did not know, and the smiling Joe Robinson, the good-natured West Indian whom everyone liked. Their displays glowed in front of them, blue-green circles, served by the fire control computer which accepted the processing of the tracking from AIO. And behind them all stood the immobile figure of the first lieutenant, Lieutenant-Commander Stuart Hamilton, quiet, authoritative, the exact complement to their ebullient captain. Hamilton was a respected Jimmy and, as attack co-ordinator, was skilled in presenting the tactical picture to his captain.